London Spanking

Spanking & Caning in London with Miss Elsa Svenson

 

Archive for May, 2012

 

2012 Story Competition — an update…

Thursday, May 24th, 2012

I have so fart received six entries and have decided to wait until I have 10 to make the final deci­sion so its still time to write your story.

Miss Pren­der­gast and I will then choose the win­ner together.

2012 Story Competition sixth entry by Lordy!

Tuesday, May 22nd, 2012

The Miss­ing Scene

 

£100 for just 10 min­utes on stage echoed around my burn­ing ears. It’s just one scene with Miss Sven­son, Miss Pren­der­grast and myself. Both these demure ladies in tweed skirts, crisp starch white blouses and silk seam stock­ings sit­ting just inches from me on robust stout upright vic­to­rian bar­ley twist chairs. My wide open eyes drawn to their mature invit­ing stern laps. I say stern as Miss Pren­der­grast slowly taps a black ebony evil look­ing hair­brush against the open palm of her left hand. Miss Sven­son cues into the sym­phony with both firm hands at each end of a well worn school strap bring­ing in her school­marm arms a few inches with the strap form­ing an arc loop and then snap­ping the strap out­wards. Ohhh! such a won­der­ful lovely excit­ing sound both hair­brush and strap elec­tri­fy­ing the air.

 

I had been on a visit to see my aunt in New Adding­ton trav­el­ling by tram this week­end. One can’t help but over­hear peo­ple talk­ing on their mobiles when you are sit­ting there watch­ing the world pass by your win­dow seat. The tweedy suited lady sit­ting in front of me ended her call with words on the line of.…“If we don’t find a dar­ing young man by the end of this week then we will have to rethink the play and change the script to a far less enthralling encounter on that scene. Such a shame as that ten min­uets would have the audi­ence on their seats with dis­be­lief and shock at see­ing what we had in mind. Quite how the press would head­line it one can only ponder!” Her final last words were.… ” I have taken the card out of the post office win­dow and will be over to see you later Miss Sven­son.” ( How quaint to hear the way they were address­ing each other in the conversation)

 

As this lady stood up to leave the tram she took a card from her leather croc­o­dile hand­bag and placed it into the tram bin.

My mind was was buzz with intrigue at what was going on here. I just had to get up and secretly walk pass the bin slip­ping my hand in and retriev­ing the card with­out draw­ing any atten­tion to myself, at the same time walk­ing to the exit door.

This was not my des­ti­na­tion but I still got off clutch­ing my card as if I knew where I was going!! Hav­ing got off the tram at Gravel Hill, my heart skipped a thou­sand beats as the card blew from hands along and over a high fence!! Bloody hell I thought and looked around to see the lady from the tram step­ping into a taxi, my only bless­ing was that I caught a glimpse of her stock­ing tops as she closed the door.

 

Maybe she saw me I don’t know but she was smil­ing my way. I ran towards the taxi rank and said to the dri­ver thru is open win­dow as he was read­ing his news­pa­per… “Fol­low that cab” With­out even look­ing up at me he uttered… “ If I’ve fuc*king heard that once I’ve fuc*king heard that a mil­lion times,“he grunted as he wound up his win­dow frown­ing away in a thick cloud of cheap tobacco haze. There was a tap on my shoul­der and on turn­ing around a very angry stern faced lady started prod­ding me and began rep­ri­mand­ing me as if I was a norty school boy about to be soundly spanked. She was bel­low­ing about how she had seen me drop lit­ter from the tram, ogle the lady get­ting into the taxi and mak­ing fun at the other taxi dri­ver!!!! Oh she really laid into me with a dress­ing down end­ing with the words ” Louts like you need a damn good bare bot­tom thrash­ing young man and if I was ten years younger I would be tak­ing you over my knee right here and now!!!”  Oh my god I thought as this pic­ture now being painted of me being thor­oughly spanked bare bot­tom next to a tram line and in pub­lic as well!!

 

This is just the sort of thing my strict aunt would have said faced in her same shoes came over me as I blushed at being told off.

With much zest this battle-axe of a madam gave me very sharp slap across my back­side before walk­ing away; steam still pour­ing from her ears.. I could feel quite a sting begin to heat my poor bot­tom. Yes a warm glow from just one smack.  Indeed what would a long hard spank­ing with trousers and pants pulled down around my ankles been like, as I endured a bare yes bare  bot­tom spank­ing over her ample firm expe­ri­enced lap. I dare say she would be assisted with a trusted slip­per and well worn hair­brush at the very least! Another long lec­ture before mak­ing me stand in the cor­ner as she goes off to make a cup of tea before fetch­ing back a crooked han­dle cane and a thick leather strap. !!Gulp!! .…She really was going to give me a jolly good thrashing!!!!

 

Hav­ing become quite aroused by those thoughts my mind turned to what was on that card. Smil­ing to myself my imag­i­na­tion took over as I closed my eyes and wrote my own story about two demure attrac­tive ladies from the local drama soci­ety hav­ing placed a card into the local post office win­dow read­ing: £100 offered to a broad­minded young man to appear in the next Penge Drama play. Must be will­ing to be spanked, strapped and caned in a dra­matic scene in which two very strict ladies deal with a long list of mis­de­meanours incurred as he is found out on his last day at stay­ing with his two aun­ties dur­ing the sum­mer holidays. One being a for­mi­da­ble stern gov­erness and the other a very strict head­mistress; well versed in good old fash­ioned timed hon­oured discipline!!

 

As I stepped back onto the next tram I had a lot to explain to my real aunt in New Adding­ton with thoughts on being late for tea and maybe even sent to bed soundly dealt with!

 


Miss Svenson and Miss Hewitt on the 31st of May!

Wednesday, May 16th, 2012

South East Lon­don,
Two beau­ti­ful, stern, author­i­ta­tive ladies have decided to join forces, the bet­ter to con­trol and pun­ish the ver­i­ta­ble tor­rent of cheek and dis­obe­di­ence that has infected mod­ern life. Miss Hewitt is a leggy brunette in her mid-thirties; Miss Sven­son, a glam­orous blonde, just a smidge older. Both are expert with the cane, and highly expe­ri­enced in the con­trol and dis­ci­pline of errant young men: both thor­oughly enjoy enforc­ing sub­mis­sion and pun­ish­ing insolence.

Each lady is avail­able sep­a­rately, yet feels that work­ing along­side the other they make a for­mi­da­ble force, their nat­ural author­ity and tal­ents in per­fect syn­ergy. The atten­tion of two such stern, exquis­ite dis­ci­pli­nar­i­ans is surely cal­cu­lated to bring to his knees even the most deviant, wicked mis­cre­ant. If you’ve behaved very badly, do get in touch. We will under­stand; we will empathise; but we will, ulti­mately, con­demn, cor­rect and rehabilitate.

2012 Story Competition fifth entry by Verity!

Tuesday, May 15th, 2012

Three Accounts

(Edited by Verity)

From Miss Svenson

The café at The Vic­to­ria and Albert Museum a few weeks ago – that’s where she found us. We were sit­ting out by the water fea­ture, Miss Pren­der­gast and I, in the vast court­yard. Being a balmy March the early after­noon sun split our table diag­o­nally across. This beau­ti­ful inner core is a thor­oughly con­ve­nient space for our weekly catch-up; for me because the rear stair­case of The V & A takes one right into The National Art Library – that day I’d been gath­er­ing more infor­ma­tion on Goya’s dark period (well, even darker than usual period) for my dis­ser­ta­tion, I think – and for Miss Pren­der­gast because this cor­ner of Lon­don is clut­tered with the inde­pen­dent bou­tiques and book­shops she adores.

 

Miss Pren­der­gast was telling me in hushed tones – not that hushed; it’s thrilling some­times to feel we may be over­heard – about how she was long­ing to deal with a trainee man­ager at her branch of Bar­clays: “Go to Inter­view Room Three, make sure the blinds are closed, remove your jacket, your shoes, your trousers and pants and wait for me there! And when I’m ready I’m going to bend you over and give you such a smacked bot­tom that you’ll …“

 

We’d been only semi-aware of the vaguely famil­iar girl at the next table, but on the words “smacked bot­tom” her papers went fly­ing in all direc­tions. Fanned densely writ­ten sides of A4. She blames the wind, freak and instan­ta­neous, but Miss Pren­der­gast is adamant that all mishap would have been avoided had her atten­tion been on her own table rather than ours. She was almost lift­ing her own bot­tom off the seat to catch our words appar­ently. A vol­ley of urgent squeaks and her des­per­ate lunges between the tables prompted a few of us to join her in the chase. I know how I’d feel if my hours of hard work were escap­ing into the skies above South Kens­ing­ton. All notes gath­ered together, per­haps our mater­nal instincts took over. Well, the sweetly round-faced lamb was stand­ing there, her lower lip trem­bling, on the verge. Miss Pren­der­gast has­tened off to get her a restora­tive white wine, and a glass each for us. At my insis­tence the girl decamped to our table, so I helped her pack her two lumpy cloth bags, one pro­claim­ing in colour­ful let­ters I’ve got ART. It turned out I did recog­nise her. She attends one of the same classes I do, Expres­sion­ist to Abstract, and also finds the lec­turer a com­plete mys­tery. As easy to fol­low, I sug­gested, as the direc­tions for flat-pack fur­ni­ture – and I’m Scan­dana­vian! She seemed to like that one, and her gig­gles were infectious.

 

Miss Pren­der­gast, apol­o­gis­ing for the long queue, arrived as the young lady, Ver­ity, and I were chuck­ling over one of my DIY dis­as­ters. Well, not so young, though – thirty-one. Sin­gle, stay­ing with a friend in Finch­ley, miss­ing her horse in Scot­land, and hold­ing a ten­ta­tive job offer from one of the East End gal­leries should she get a First. The chat­ter flowed cheer­fully between us and ate up the time.

 

Just as Miss Pren­der­gast fin­ished the last of the olives and I was con­tem­plat­ing another hour or two in the Library, Ver­ity gath­ered her courage. Her voice dipped and fal­tered, giv­ing away her attempt to sound casual: “I’m not being nosey but was that, er, a story? Or for real? About” (a cracked cough) “the smacked bot­tom? You know, smack­ing that man’s bottom?”


From Miss Prendergast

 

It was my idea to ask her to sign an agree­ment. Hardly a legal doc­u­ment, and we wouldn’t want it to be, but it made the process more real. Drew it out delec­tably:  I, Ver­ity Brooker, rescind com­plete respon­si­bil­ity to Miss Sven­son and Miss Pren­der­gast, for a full period of three hours, on Sat­ur­day 5th May, to imple­ment any cor­rec­tional mea­sures over my per­son as they see fit. And so on.

 

Team­ing up with Elsa Sven­son has opened my eyes, in so many ways. Not only is she fast becom­ing one of my clos­est friends but our adven­tures together leave me eager. Eager for more of some­thing I had no idea was miss­ing. I was shy at first, a touch embar­rassed to be in the room while she was deal­ing with a male vis­i­tor. One of her most reg­u­lar guests is a scruffy oaf named Pip­kin – hmmm – who seems to be able to absorb spank­ing and tawsing of indus­trial quan­ti­ties. Just before his third visit within the space of a month Elsa had hinted that she’d be might­ily grate­ful if I could take over for a lit­tle while, just with the hand-spanking, to let her action hand recover. I was unsure; would I hurt Pip­kin, in the wrong way, or, worse, not hurt him? Would he see straight through me? Miss Sven­son came straight back with the asser­tion that I wouldn’t know until I tried and that the object of the game wasn’t to win a BAFTA. But after the first dozen or so uncer­tain slaps, once I was into my stride, the zone as Elsa calls it, I felt like a nat­ural. And I didn’t want to give him back, let him off my lap. Miss Sven­son reck­oned she’d never seen the naughty toad squirm as much, to the extent that at one point she’d had to step to the side of the chair and clamp his slen­der legs firmly between hers.

 

I’d asked Elsa a cou­ple of times whether any girls num­bered among her clients. No, well, rarely. So I wasn’t hold­ing my breath – until Ver­ity landed in our laps. Over our laps.

 

The per­son­able, unlucky-in-love and well-rounded Ver­ity. Not quite over­weight but at just five foot four her gen­er­ous poundage can’t help but make for a full bosom and a pen­du­lous bot­tom. The kind of bot­tom that sur­prises every time she man­ages to coax and squeeze it in to her tight frayed jeans. And almost as entic­ing, a lightly freck­led face and fair hair that fights, against its boss’s wishes, to form a fringe. There’s def­i­nitely some­thing about Ver­ity; cute­ness, yes, but enthu­si­asm too. Not pushy — enough mod­esty — but a qui­etly deter­mined grab­ber of life.

 

The first cou­ple of chats we had, the three of us, after the time her essay notes had taken flight felt real cat and mouse stuff. Elsa was con­vinced that this young lady would be beg­ging at some point to know more, and beg­ging again after that to have her bot­tom smacked. I wasn’t so sure but she made me promise not to raise the topic. Ver­ity must come to us, cross the line on her own. And, you’ve guessed; Miss Sven­son one, Miss Pren­der­gast nil. After wan­der­ing through all sorts of top­ics, even tak­ing in hottest boy­bands (I still say The Bay City Rollers though I was shouted down), Ver­ity had nowhere else to hide. Silence. Fum­bling. Look­ing towards each of us in turn. Then,

 

So – oh, I know what I was going to ask you. You know you said that, er, what was it? . . that you’d actu­ally spanked peo­ple? . . you weren’t mean­ing as a sort of fan­tasy, in their heads? Well, your heads? But actu­ally for real?”

 

Y-e-ssss?” Elsa matched the drawn-out word with a quizzi­cal twin­kle in her eye.

 

Um, well, what’s it like then?”

 

How do you mean?”, feign­ing slight surprise.

 

No, no, sorry, not to do it I mean . . I mean, well, to be spanked?”

 

I rel­ished a mis­tress at the height of her craft.

 

Ver­ity … are you try­ing to tell me that you have never, in your life, had your bot­tom smacked?”

 

Sorry. No! Well, yes . . No – nearly. But not, no. Not smacked.”

 

Pro­fes­sional inter­view­ers will tell you that with the right ques­tion­ing you can lead a can­di­date any­where, tap the deep­est streams of hon­esty. With ner­vous gig­gles and a cou­ple of false starts Ver­ity released a trickle of infor­ma­tion and ideas. Her inter­est in spank­ing wasn’t a new thing to her. Soon a river, then a flood. As with many peo­ple per­haps it had been with her all her life. Cer­tainly from the age of seven when the ‘nearly’ had happened.

 

She’d been cheeky to her teacher, Miss Terry – that was very cred­i­ble – and had been asked to wait behind while the rest of the class went out to play. By chance another teacher, a Mrs Jones, had walked in to col­lect some books. The dia­logue between the two teach­ers sounded more in keep­ing with a cou­ple of pan­tomime dames; vamp­ing it up, ask­ing each other repeat­edly if there was any way on earth one might cure pupils of cheek.

 

I know!” exclaimed Miss Terry, who was perched on the front rim of her desk.

 

With­out warn­ing her two strong but gen­tle hands had con­nected with Verity’s waist, scooped her bod­ily into the air and deposited her over the broad lap wait­ing for her. And by all accounts Miss Terry’s lap was broad.

 

Are you think­ing what I’m think­ing Mrs Jones?”

 

I do believe I am Miss Terry. But do carry on, please, don’t let me stop your train of thought.”

 

Well, I’m think­ing to myself that this is exactly the sort of girl that might ben­e­fit from a smacked bottom.”

 

That’s uncanny. Just what I was think­ing Miss Terry!”

 

But to Verity’s, now aching, regret she never found out whether or not Miss Terry intended to tie action to her words. Shock and a cock­tail of other emo­tions had over­whelmed. Tears coursed her cheeks unchecked and there was an urgent knot­ting sen­sa­tion in her stom­ach. To raise her bot­tom, Miss Terry’s warm hand had slipped effort­lessly under Verity’s tummy, cup­ping and lift­ing at the same time. Ter­ri­fied but­ter­flies strain­ing inside her. Tum­bling around each other. Then, invol­un­tar­ily, as she gave in, fierce embar­rass­ment. Much more shame­ful than the tears at the tips of her nose and chin. She really had wet herself.

 

She was imme­di­ately returned to ground level, con­soled and led to the PE store by Mrs Jones to be left with some fresh pants – hor­ri­ble baggy ones –

and deeply con­fused pangs for what might have been.

 

And here we are, Ver­ity and I, on a Sat­ur­day morn­ing, steam­ing mugs of cof­fee in our hands, and the signed agree­ment to one side, wait­ing for Miss Sven­son to enter.

 

From Ver­ity


OMG, this is unreal. I know I’m here, bod­ily, in Miss Svenson’s study, but my mind is strug­gling with the idea. My legs car­ried me on to the 8.33 at Lon­don Bridge and then walked me round and round Penge so that I wasn’t early. So my body is respon­si­ble for this sit­u­a­tion is it?

 

Miss Pren­der­gast seems to under­stand why I’m find­ing small talk unchar­ac­ter­is­ti­cally dif­fi­cult and is doing her best to relax me with her friendly ques­tion­ing. My eyes are mov­ing alter­nately between her and the brass door han­dle, expect­ing it to turn. Now. No, per­haps now.

 

I’ve just missed it because the door has opened and closed and Miss Sven­son is in the room with us. She’s smiling.

 

Ver­ity! Good morn­ing. How lovely – you’re wear­ing what we sug­gested. I’m pleased.”

 

If you’re won­der­ing, a pale pink blouse, a pleated skirt (Miss Sven­son had said black or navy, but char­coal is all I have in a fuller style), white socks – yuck! – and flat-soled dark shoes. My hair’s in two bunches which Miss Pren­der­gast helped me with when I arrived. I was impressed she could do it with­out tak­ing off her black gloves.

 

Right. Maybe you’d be kind enough to fetch my chair for me, and place it in

front of the bureau, just here.”

 

Miss Sven­son, just to the side of her ele­gant kidney-shaped desk, is point­ing to the cen­tre of the car­pet. My body – my body again – is leap­ing to atten­tion, swing­ing my chair round, back legs first, towards the mid­dle of the room. Miss Prendergast’s hand is check­ing my arm, though, caus­ing the chair to lurch.

 

No Ver­ity. Miss Sven­son specif­i­cally said her chair. That’s your chair. Dear oh dear.”

 

This seems to prompt a flicker of amuse­ment between the two friends. I’m apol­o­gis­ing and slow­ing down. Now care­fully edg­ing round. A cou­ple of steady­ing breaths. Then guid­ing the chair, gin­gerly, to avoid the radi­a­tor and the obsta­cles, till it comes to rest on the pre­cise spot.

 

Thank you, much better.”

 

Seated, Miss Svenson’s eye­line is below mine. I’m being moved closer, with a fin­ger­tip pres­sure on my right wrist. We bump lightly as I reach her but this is obvi­ously where she wants me, stand­ing, my thigh rest­ing imper­cep­ti­bly against hers. Through the taut­ness of her skirt it declares itself a warm but unyield­ing thigh.

 

Now, Ver­ity, so that there are no sur­prises I’m going to tell you what’s going to hap­pen to you today.”

 

Her soft voice has a sing-song quality.

 

When I’m ready – and only when I’m ready – I’m going to put you across my knee. Here.”

 

With the back of her hand, a dis­crete glide, she’s indi­cat­ing her tidy lap. Wowee – cor­po­ral pun­ish­ment for dummies.

 

And then I’m going to spank you, with my hand. And I’m going to keep spank­ing you. For as long as I feel like it. And I’m in the mood for it to be long, oh yes! . . This is what we call the warming-up. Because then I shall ask Miss Pren­der­gast to undress you – take away the skirt and pull down the under­wear. And I shall smack your bare bot­tom. Really smack it.”

 

There’s a teas­ing breeze, pos­si­bly from the direc­tion of the win­dow, on the back of my leg. A feather cool­ness, now behind my upper thigh, now play­ing over the sur­face of my bot­tom. But this breeze has fin­gers because I can feel them solic­i­tously adjust­ing the line the elas­tic of my panties forms at one leg, just below my cheek. Her touch is the light­est, but utterly controlling.

 

We’ll give you plenty of lit­tle breaks – don’t you worry. Time to recover yourself.”

 

I’m look­ing into her face for a sign but have to turn away. Her words bub­ble on, hyp­not­i­cally, and I’m con­cen­trat­ing on the beau­ti­ful line of pearls around her neck. Miss Pren­der­gast is lean­ing for­ward in her seat, as though she wants to miss noth­ing. Her expres­sion is focused.

 

My wrist is being taken, and is lead­ing me for­ward again. This time the tra­jec­tory is plac­ing my nose inches from the car­pet. I feel my feet brac­ing, the other side of Miss Sven­son and it dawns on me that my bot­tom, angled, is the high­est point of me. Alone and vul­ner­a­ble in the air.

 

The smacks are mea­sured, part of a pat­tern, but each one has its own char­ac­ter almost. Occa­sion­ally one doesn’t con­nect so squarely and is more of a thud or a slip, a wasted shot. Most are any­thing but wasted, though, and every ten smacks or so one really pen­e­trates my defences and makes me gasp with its inten­sity. They progress, three on one cheek, three on the other. Sets of thirty – count­ing helps me bear them a bit – inter­spersed with sharp angry vol­leys, unpre­dictable, a dozen or so wal­lops deliv­ered hard and fast to any point of my bot­tom that gets in the way as I squirm to avoid them.

 

Then more sets, and more, carry me on.

 

I’m not sure I can take much more.  My knick­ers, stretched to break­ing, con­nect my knees at ungainly angles – like a lig­a­ture, in pow­der blue. One shoe has come off and my white-socked foot is mak­ing jerky curls in the air to the reg­u­lar thwack of the leather-soled slip­per. My poor bot­tom. It’s a fleshy pres­sure pad, draw­ing the heat relent­lessly in to a tight core. Looks-wise – I’ve been allowed to study it when Miss Pren­der­gast has taken me over to the mir­ror – it’s a cushion-shaped patch­work of graded reds and pinks. They spread all over and round to the sides.

 

The pain is many-layered I’m real­is­ing. The imme­di­ate bursts soon dis­si­pate but they stoke a fire below which pul­sates; at the deep­est level it has a com­pul­sive edge. And in between, other heats, some nag­ging, some urgent.

 

And the flurry is stop­ping. Miss Svenson’s hands are mas­sag­ing again, over the harder areas of skin. Lightly at first and then insis­tently, prepar­ing me for yet more perhaps.

 

She’s doing ever so well, Miss Sven­son, don’t you think?”

 

She cer­tainly is Miss Pren­der­gast. Wrig­gles a bit – and sounds a bit like a ten­nis player– but, yes, doing very well.”

 

Do you think we should try her with what we do to the big boys some­times? I’ll sup­port her if you like … ”

 

I’m being helped up by Miss Pren­der­gast and turned to face the book­shelves. The silence itself is cool­ing before I hear Miss Sven­son qui­etly open­ing a cup­board the other side of the study. The chink and bump of a large hol­low recep­ta­cle being moved. Light knocks from inside it, wooden almost.

 

With­out warn­ing Miss Prendergast’s deft fin­gers are undo­ing the fas­ten­ings of my blouse. Begin­ning with the one above my cleav­age, down to the last, below my belly button.

 

Thank you Ver­ity, very help­ful”; uncon­sciously I’m angling my right shoul­der for her. And the blouse is being folded squarely and placed on the chair my skirt rests on. I’m stand­ing in front of her now in only bra, socks and one shoe — panties at half-mast. Feel­ing a bit silly. Work­ing behind me in one move­ment she’s unclip­ping and remov­ing my bra from me. With the con­fi­dence of a far­rier she lifts my left calf in a per­pen­dic­u­lar motion inten­tion­ally tip­ping me, forc­ing me to bal­ance against her shoul­der. The shoe is off – clump! -  and her thumb and lit­tle fin­ger stretch the elas­tane top of my sock wide, pivot back, glid­ing it down­wards, inside out and off. The same again with the other sock. With­out hes­i­ta­tion, she’s kneel­ing directly in front of me, tak­ing the front tri­an­gle of my knick­ers, scrunch­ing the mate­r­ial in one hand, and shim­my­ing them down. I’m hav­ing to side­step out quickly or risk top­pling over.

 

She’s turn­ing me again, this time towards Miss Sven­son. In Miss Svenson’s hand, held hor­i­zon­tally for me to admire is a thin crook-handled cane. We’re look­ing at each other for a few sec­onds. Again Miss Sven­son has the hint of a smile – oth­er­wise, a pic­ture of serenity.

 

It would be wrong if we didn’t let you expe­ri­ence the cane . . just a taster. Twelve strokes. I know you can take it.”

 

I feel a bit flut­tery, unsure how to stand, what is expected. In any case Miss Pren­der­gast now occu­pies the cen­tre of the carpet.

 

In answer, “Place your hands on Miss Prendergast’s shoul­ders, Ver­ity please.”

 

A very odd pos­ture. I’m look­ing at the back of Miss Prendergast’s jacket, tai­lored, dark brown, styl­ishly heavy but­tons. No sooner are my palms meet­ing the smooth padded wool, though, than Miss Pren­der­gast is tak­ing my wrists and tuck­ing them towards her chest. The momen­tum is let­ting her fold my upper arms under hers, so that I’m being made to per­form a back­ward embrace on her, my jaw­line touch­ing her cheek. I notice her soft skin smells faintly of soap, an old-fashioned and rather good soap.

 

Although Miss Pren­der­gast is stoop­ing slightly I’m hav­ing to strain to a tip­toe just to reach the ground. She’s around four inches taller than I am. As she stands to her proper height I now under­stand the pur­pose of the posi­tion I’m in; dan­gling in midair with my roast­ing bot­tom thrust provoca­tively out­wards, that’s the pur­pose. But Miss Pren­der­gast hasn’t fin­ished and leans for­ward, bend­ing from her waist, angling me higher. I’m wor­ry­ing that my cen­tre of grav­ity might top­ple us right over, but appar­ently not. With a final flour­ish she’s stick­ing her bot­tom out. Right out. I’m a wob­bling bea­con atop a brown-suited mountain.

 

Miss Sven­son is tak­ing time to posi­tion her­self. Each time she adjusts her stance she cal­i­brates again with three quick taps, one-two-three, to my right but­tock. I can feel now at each check that the tip of the cane is find­ing pre­cisely the same spot, just inside the far edge of the well-worked crim­son oblong.

 

Miss Svenson’s voice has warm-edged author­ity: “We’ll take these slowly, Ver­ity, as you’re new to this, in sets of four. And if you wrig­gle too much, well . . I may just have to add more strokes.”

 

Right on cue Miss Pren­der­gast rotates her hips back, round, in two or three huge arcs. Nat­u­rally my hips and bot­tom have no choice but to fol­low the move­ments beneath me, exag­ger­at­ing them, in what can only be described as wickedly auda­cious wrig­gling. A fine time for pantomime . .

 

Right you are, my girl. Four­teen strokes it is!”

 

More taps to per­fect the line of her swing. An age is pass­ing before I can sense her pulling taut, back­ward, higher. She’s releas­ing. Now! A clean whis­tle, a crack and I’m feel­ing that I’ve been cut in half. More excru­ci­at­ing than any­thing, ever. A shriek is tear­ing the air – is it mine?

 

Take your time my dear. Breathe deeply. Recover. Absolutely no rush. We can do these one at a time, not a prob­lem . . you tell me when you’re ready for the next one.”

 

Are you com­fort­able enough there Miss Pren­der­gast?” Miss Prendergast’s upbeat voice is affirm­ing some­where near my ear that she, like Miss Sven­son, is in this for the long haul.

 

I’m wait­ing now for the third stroke and realise I’m squeez­ing Miss Prendergast’s shoul­ders tightly. I force myself to con­sciously relax and hear myself croak­ing per­mis­sion for the next stroke to fall. Light taps, almost sooth­ing on my left cheek, and then a viciously high-pitched hiss and crack. Tor­ture! I swal­low a breathy howl, and am rock­ing back and forth through the lim­ited inches allowed to me. My moans are quiet and, I sense, accept­able to Miss Sven­son and Miss Prendergast.

 

The fourth stroke now, and it’s less intense. Maybe I really can take this. Pain, yes, but very bearable.

 

How wrong; I’m too quick in say­ing I’m ready for stroke num­ber five. The taps are cur­sory and the cut severe, enveloped in deadly accu­racy. A new agony. Fierce. I’m sob­bing now.

 

Miss Sven­son is step­ping round to the other side of us, and Miss Pren­der­gast tilts and angles me afresh. But I’m a sur­vivor – one stroke at a time. And I’m grate­ful I can deter­mine the pace. A good cou­ple of min­utes I give myself between each of the last few.

 

Just two more to go.

 

Jeep­ers creep­ers that hurt! Right in the crease below my left but­tock, and I know I’m trem­bling with the acute shock.

 

Well done, Ver­ity. I’m proud of you. You’re a brave girl. Just one more now and then Miss Pren­der­gast will put you down and get the cold cream. And a glass of wine maybe.”

 

I’m sure this is going to be roy­alty among cane strokes. So, grit­ting my teeth, whis­per­ing assent, stiff­en­ing my body and prepar­ing for some­thing hor­ri­bly real. The cane sings in the air and I scream. A real gut­tural scream — sub­sid­ing as quickly as it hap­pened, leav­ing me whim­per­ing to myself. In slow motion now, Miss Svenson’s reas­sur­ing hands are on my waist to steady me as my feet con­nect with the ground again. Blis­ter­ing hurt and exhil­a­rat­ing triumph.

 

My first instinct as I‘m step­ping on to the plat­form at Lon­don Bridge is to turn my phone on – can’t believe I’ve been nearly four hours with­out it. It’s beep­ing into life and announc­ing an sms. Sender: Elsa Sven­son:  I’m click­ing, I’m click­ing, resent­ing the micro-seconds it’s tak­ing to load. Then, on the screen, in silver-grey: A date for your diary . .  Sat 16 Jun. Are you free?  ES  x 

 

I’m grin­ning uncon­trol­lably. And the tum­bling but­ter­flies begin again.